Part 30 (1/2)

_Scorpio_--Self-Defense.

There's not a creature in the realm of night But has the wish to live, likewise the right: Don't tread upon the scorpion, or he'll fight.

_Sagittarius_--The Archer.

Life is an arrow, therefore you must know What mark to aim at, how to use the bow,-- Then draw it to the head and let it go!

_Capricornus_--The Goat.

The goat looks solemn, yet he likes to run, And leap the rocks, and gambol in the sun: The truly wise enjoy a little fun.

_Aquarius_--Water.

”Like water spilt upon the ground,”--alas, Our little lives flow swiftly on and pa.s.s; Yet may they bring rich harvests and green gra.s.s!

_Pisces_--The Fishes.

Last of the sacred signs, you bring to me A word of hope, a word of mystery,-- _We all are swimmers in G.o.d's mighty sea._

February 28, 1918.

PRO PATRIA

PATRIA

I would not even ask my heart to say If I could love another land as well As thee, my country, had I felt the spell Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey The charm of France, or England's mighty sway.

I would not be so much an infidel As once to dream, or fas.h.i.+on words to tell, What land could hold my heart from thee away.

For like a law of nature in my blood, America, I feel thy sovereignty, And woven through my soul thy vital sign.

My life is but a wave and thou the flood; I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree; Nor should I be at all, were I not thine.

June, 1904.

AMERICA

I love thine inland seas, Thy groves of giant trees, Thy rolling plains; Thy rivers' mighty sweep, Thy mystic canyons deep, Thy mountains wild and steep, All thy domains;

Thy silver Eastern strands, Thy Golden Gate that stands Wide to the West; Thy flowery Southland fair, Thy sweet and crystal air,-- O land beyond compare, Thee I love best!

March, 1906.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour; They are simple enough to be great in their friendly dignity,-- Homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation.

I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys, Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them: Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fas.h.i.+oned roses, A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows, The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter, The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics,-- All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.

I love the weather-beaten, s.h.i.+ngled houses that front the ocean; They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them: Their backs are bowed, and their sides are covered with lichens; Soft in their colour as gray pearls, they are full of a patient courage.

Facing the briny wind on a lonely sh.o.r.e they stand undaunted, While the thin blue pennant of smoke from the square-built chimney Tells of a haven for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.

I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns, They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing; I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses.

Long since the riders have ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten, They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open, For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.